“Don’t play games with me, Marcus,” I warn.
“You know I never play games, Eli,” he says, walking to the balcony where he leans on the rail, back to the steel, elbows on the rail as he peers up at the sky and then glances over at me. “Games are for humans.”
“What the fuck is going on?”
He faces me. “It’s her, Eli.”
My lashes lower and a wave of emotions overwhelm me. “No,” I say, rejecting the idea, staring him down. “Why are you lying to me?”
“That’s another thing I don’t do. I don’t lie and you know it.” His eyes meet mine and images rush through my mind, the past with the Ivy I’d loved and married mingled with images of the new Ivy, in her current life.
I cut my gaze, step back, and break the connection. “It can’t be.”
“I assure you it can, and it is, Ivy.”
“How?”
“All things are possible. A man can become a vampire, a wolf, a witch. A man that would die can live forever. A vampire that once would have burned alive in sunlight no longer burns alive.”
“Why now?”
“She’s been back three times. You never found her.”
“You knew and you didn’t tell me?”
“Breaking the natural cycle is punishable by death. I couldn’t tell you. You had to find each other.”
“You sent me to Nashville.”
“I did,” he says. “Despite the risk to myself, I tried to bring you together. And there was a legitimate reason for you to be there.”
I walk to the balcony and press my hands on the railing, staring out over the downtown skyline. “I was in her neighborhood. I didn’t feel her there.”
“Didn’t you?”
I think back to those nights in The Gulch and the raw hunger that had driven me into battle with the wolves. “How did she end up here?”
“Fate,” he replies. “The time is right.”
“And yet, it’s not. How the hell am I supposed to bring her into our world?” I challenge. “Why would I curse her with monsters?”
“You’re offering her life and a greater purpose.”
“Am I?”
“Would you rather be alive fighting monsters or dead, Eli?”
“I’m not her. This is not what I wished for her.”
“Because she doesn’t know monsters are real doesn’t mean she’s not on the menu. It simply means she’s oblivious to the dangers around her.”
With that, he disappears, the bastard.
I run my hand over my jaw. Fuck. What the hell did that even mean? She’s on the menu. She’s on the fucking menu? “Marcus!” I shout. “Come back here!”
But he doesn’t come back. And he won’t. But he says nothing without a purpose. Is she in danger? Or am I the monster he speaks of? Was he agreeing with me that this life, my life, would be hell for her? Is this a test? One I only pass if I willingly walk away from the woman I love? But then, who’s to say she’d love me again anyway? I’m living the same life. She’s living a new one.
Maybe there’s been another man she loved, in this life or another.
While I have never loved anyone but her.
I have no right to claim her or make her decisions for her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ivy
I can’t stop thinking about Eli.
My deadline is critical, and words need to be on the page, now, not later, but after a ridiculous bout of writer’s block, this trip to Denver has proven magical for my productivity. Until now.
I’m in a small room off the Ritz lounge, where I’ve been working for days with a steady flow of coffee and food, trying to put words on the page. So far, the plan has worked, the splurge of staying here really has paid off. Today though, the words just aren’t happening. I’m too distracted and confused by whatever that was between me and Eli last night. I don’t invite men to my home, or in this case, hotel room. I don’t. That’s not who I am, but of course, I do have a bit of influence right now. My friend, Shelly, really ripped into my connection to fantasy worlds becoming obsessive and unhealthy as the reason I remain pitifully thirty-four and single. I didn’t think she’d affected me. I enjoy my fantasy worlds, but perhaps she did.
Or he did.
Eli affected me on some strange level.
I can’t explain it.
My hand slides to my neck and massages. He didn’t bite me. There are no marks. I have no idea why I woke up, panting, aroused, wet, ridiculously wet, with a memory of him doing just that: biting my neck. And I’d liked it. Obviously, he didn’t. Not that he actually bit me, but he did kiss me. And then he’d just left. Or—no. He’d lingered outside my door. I’d felt him there. I’d felt him in every part of my body.
But it’s now near seven in the evening, and I have yet to see him here. And he knows I’m here. He knows how to find me. He just chooses not to. I stand up and stretch my legs, glad I convinced myself to wear my comfy leggings and sweater. I have no one but my editor and my readers to impress. Surely not some hot guy named Eli, who was actually rather bossy and arrogant, when I really think about it. Stay close to the hotel. It’s late to be walking alone. Or whatever he said. I’m paraphrasing, but it’s close enough.
I walk into the dining room area, treat myself to a selection of homemade cookies and macaroons and a latte before I return to my little room. My table is actually round with enough room for six people, but it’s just little ol’ me, and I kind of love it. I flip on the television, pleased to find the Beat Bobby Flay cooking challenge is on right now. I’ll snack, watch a little TV, and pound out a couple thousand words. Then maybe I’ll go to dinner and a movie. I’ve been wanting to see that new Snake Eyes movie. And I really do find going to the movies stimulates my creativity.
I’ve just had a delicious bite of a chocolate chip cookie when a familiar face appears in the doorway. Jacob Waller is tall, fit, blond, and good-looking, with a friendly personality, and an obvious like of expensive, well-fitted suits. He’s also four years my senior at thirty-six, the CEO of a tech company, and from what I can tell, quite wealthy. He should rock my world. He doesn’t. That’s the problem. I just don’t have my world rocked. Except for last night with Eli, and he blew me off. But on the bright side, I now know I’m not broken as most of my friends claim over my response, or lack thereof, to most men.
“I just figured out your pen name,” he says, claiming a seat at the table next to me. “Ivy Miller is Ivan Casey, the bestselling author of the Vampire Agents of Nashville series. And Ivan doesn’t have a photo on his website or book covers. I love that series, by the way.”
“You are quite the detective yourself, now aren’t you?” I ask, “but I don’t really hide my identity. Not anymore. I do signings and events.”
“I can’t believe it’s really you.”
It doesn’t matter that I’ve been writing this series for seven years, my reaction is the same to this kind of attention. I still to this day feel a flutter in my belly when fans rave about the series, followed by a mix of excitement and shyness. There is a surreal feeling, too. As in—can this really be my life?